


in passing and parting of ways

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Post-Sgrub, Reelas is a harbinger, Troll gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reelas takes a moment to fulfill his godly duties and finds a story he may have heard before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in passing and parting of ways

'The view is very nice from up here,' you think as you yawn idly and flex your shoulders. Your wings are sore; they always are, but it's your own fault for keeping them perpetually stuffed under your clothes. You just can't get used to them. It's been-- god, you don't even know how many sweeps-- since you got them, and they still look so unfamiliar. Not that it matters. Your psionics mean that you can float around just fine even with them folded under your shirt. 

The city in front of you looks so full of life, bustling with people and activity. It's so different from the ones on Alternia, all bright and shining rather than dim and unpleasant. Then again, you might be biased. You have no good memories of Alternian cities, personally. You take a deep breath. There's so much electricity in the air that you can taste it, feel it buzzing under your skin. You'd found that the strange little inhabitants of this universe were rather fond of the substance (or 'It's an energy, you idiot', as Bayale would correct you many times), and you fondly remember the old days when the more religious types would have little festivals thanking you for its existence. You know you didn't create it, technically; you just showed them how to make and use it. But you never complained. The thing about being a God is that you develop a mild fondness for the ego-stroking that came with it.

Alas, the sweeps (or 'years', to use the human time-measurement system) had passed, and while traditions and superstitions stayed behind, most people disregarded the stories of you and your friends as fiction, or modified them somehow. You'd thought it interesting how different sects had developed different interpretations: some regarding you all as one entity, others favouring one of the group. You'd laughed at all the folklore, how funny it'd been how they regarded you all as powerful, amazing beings (unlike the dorks you actually were), and how the stories mirrored your session to the point that you could swear someone (probably Kellen or Jasaya) had gone off blabbing about it. Your favourite one-- one that stuck despite the passing of time-- however, is one regarding you and Kellen. Kellen, regarded as a deity of destruction (along with a few other things you agree with), and yourself: the harbinger of disaster. To this day, the people regard 'clouded eyes' as an omen of death. These traits are consistent to almost every form of lore, and for good reason. Despite how much time you spend roaming around with the humans, you've stayed true to your nature in sticking by Kellen's side (her faithful Knight, now, rather than pet), and that means you always know where she's decided to unleash her godly wrath, and you always like to pay a visit, just to see what it was like before it goes up in flames. 

Actually, that's why you're here.

This beautiful, buzzing city in front of you is about to be so much rubble, and all because someone hadn't paid their dues. Oh well. There are plenty of cities, and while you've become jaded to the concept of these humans dying (their lifespans were so tragically short in the first place, even shorter than yours would have been if you hadn't become immortal, and their self-destructive habits were downright ridiculous), you know that a city this big will get plenty of press coverage. Humans are really touchy about death, you've found. Ironic.

You glance down at your pocket-watch (you always carry little keepsakes from your friends, being that you don't spend a lot of time in the mountain hideout; this one's from Kellen) and note that it's stopped, which indicates that the town is officially in the smiting-queue. Which means that the time for dawdling is officially over. It's now or never, and you pride yourself on having never missed a smiting. You are always a bit nervous entering, though. It's almost always a big city getting burnt out, and, again, you've never been fond of such places. You adjust your jacket, double check your ring (a keepsake from Adhmor, making you appear human to onlookers; all but the eyes, anyway), and float down as close as you can to the city without being spotted before you switch to walking. You grumble in lazy inconvenience. You always hated that humans didn't have psionics; walking really is annoying as hell when it wasn't optional.

You take a while deliberating where to go. You generally have an idea of where the best place to be is (always a cesspool of bad decisions, like a convenience store or a rave), but you hadn't had the time to come in earlier and scope out, so instead you have to take a more direct approach. You walk up to the nearest guy with a fedora and ask for the seediest bar in town. Well, you ask in a lot more words than that, but nevertheless, your point gets across, and though you do get an odd look for asking such a question, you get directions to what you are guaranteed is the 'biggest shithole on this end of the country'. You are riveted, though you are almost certain that no matter how bad it is, you've seen worse. A man can hope, though.

As it is, it doesn't take long to find the place. It's located in the dirtiest part of town, the part that's so unkempt that you feel like showering just from being there. You have to cross through a dark alley to get to it, and you are fairly sure you're the most confident person to ever do so. What's dangerous to most is nothing to you; a knifing wouldn't kill you even if they could get you before you fried them original recipe. Incidentally, your confidence works as a deterrent (because clearly no one could be that self-assured unless they had something up their sleeve), and no one fucks with you. You reach the entrance of the bar unmolested and for the most part unnoticed, and from there you begin your search.

As expected, the place is absolutely filled with good candidates. Life's fuck-ups, the people who didn't want society or society didn't want them or both. Behind your sunglasses, your silvery orbs scan the crowd for someone who catches your eye. Humans are so strange, so similar to one another but at the same time so different. Everyone looks interesting, from the skeevy looking female smoking in the corner to the bulky males bickering over the green-felted table on the other end of the establishment. The one that manages to really lock your attention, though, is the youth sitting by himself at the bar. He's at least four chairs away from the nearest person, nursing some kind of brownish liquid with a small collection of empty bottles and glasses next to him. He's hunched over, but quiet. You imagine he's drunk but not wasted, probably down on his luck. Just your type. You make your way over to him and grab the seat next to him, ordering a vodka old-fashioned with cherry juice and grinning at the odd look the bartender gives you.

"And a top-off for my pal here. Whatcha drinking, anyway?" you add, pointing your thumb at the lad, who peers at you curiously. He looks a bit befuddled, like he wasn't expecting anyone to acknowledge him, let alone buy him a drink. Nevertheless, the barkeep seems to know what he's drinking, and scurries off to make him a fresh one. The silence in the meantime is a little uncomfortable, and you are not one for silences. You break it like it's an expensive vase made of community-grade eggshell.

"Dumped, huh?" you ask, with all the subtlety of a flying cow. He looks at you like he isn't sure whether he wants to punch you or not. His drink comes, and he chooses the latter.

"Close enough. How can you tell?" he asks. He's got one of those accents you aren't really familiar with, but sounds similar to Imperial Alternian. You smirk at him, if only because grinning is one of those expressions that doesn't translate through your disguise well.

"Know the look," you nod to his collection of beverage containers, "-and the pile, for that matter." He grimaces, managing to look a little guilty. You cover your amusement through a sip of your drink.

"...Right, well. You hold it fine, and that's all that matters, ain't it?" you say. He pauses for a minute, then throws an inquiry of his own your way.

"Where'd you say you were from?" he says. You suppose it must be the accent. You always forget about it, because none of your friends ever bring it up, but humans are more nosy about stuff like that.

"Bit far off," you answer, vaguely.

"...Korea?" he quips.

"What?"

There's a short silence before he talks again, suddenly curious about you.

"What did you say your name was?" he asks, and while it's a simple enough question, you don't like giving that out right off the bat. In the old days, it made you a dead giveaway. These days, it's just habit.

"I didn't," you reply. "What, need it for something?"

He gets a tad defensive over your sass, like pretty much everyone does, but he doesn't seem overly offended. Good quality, you think. The kid has potential.

"Just thought it'd be nice to know your name if you're going to be buying my drinks," he retorts, and you crack a smile. You're starting to like this kid. Damn shame, you think.

"Reelas," you say, truthfully. He quips an eyebrow and matches your smirk with is own.

"Like the god?" he asks. You're a tiny bit surprised. Not a lot of people catch that anymore.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" he smiles again, this time more wistful, like he's remembering things long past.

"Mom used to be a huge mythology buff. Storms and disasters, right? Patron god of free-spirits?"

You almost choke on your booze. That's a new one. You can't wait to tell Kellen.

"Yeah, yeah. Yours?"

"Erron," he says. You snicker some more.

"Like Yerono, then?" you reply. He nods, and there's another sudden silence. You flick your claws against the rim of your drink.

"Her name's Bethany," he blurts, suddenly. You try not to look surprised. It isn't hard, with your eyes hidden like that. You nod, sagely, and prompt him to continue. "What's she like?"

For a moment, you think he wont reply. Then you realise he's gathering his thoughts, pan blurred by the amount of booze that's finally starting to kick in. When he collects himself, his words are a bit jumbled, but definitely legible.

"She's just...God, how do I describe her? She's just amazing. Her smile, and the way she talks..." he trails off, shaking his head, and you feel a pang of pity for the poor guy. You feel him, you really do. You don't tell him so. Instead, you inquire further.

"And she dumped you? What for?"

He shakes his head, frowning.

"No, no, that's not it. She didn't dump me, I, uh... I just kind of never told her, that's all," he says. That gets you right in the bloodpusher, because yeah, you can _definitely_ relate to that. You harden your expression, because you aren't trying to pale-flirt. You're trying to get a read. You tell him the same thing your ancestor told you in that dream so long ago.

"Tell her so, then," you say, sipping your drink. You couldn't get a better face out of him if you'd hit him with a brick.

"No, no, I can't. I'm such a burnout, I mean, I barely have my own apartment. I live off of instant noodles, for fuck's sake." You roll your eyes, despite the fact he can't see.

"Ah, shove off that. That's n- That's pussyfooting, is what it is. Excuses. It's not like you ain't good enough, it's that you're chickenshit. Gotta take responsibility before it's too late. Trust me, I know." He cocks an eyebrow at you, and you elaborate.

"While ago. I danced around the topic too long, and it just wound up a bit of a mess. When I said something, it was a bit too late, but... Well, the way she looked was kind of worth it." You finish the last of your drink, and stand, adjusting your jacket.

"Look, my point is, you've got a short life. A really, really short life. You can't waste it worrying about shit like that, you know." You tip your glasses down, exposing your blank silver eyes and giving him a wink.

"'Sides, you never know if there's gonna be a tomorrow. Might as well go out with no regrets, yeah?"

You push your glasses back up your nose, smirking at the sight of him as you turn to leave. The ally is empty enough by the time you get out, and you take off your coat, almost purring as your wings unfold themselves and stretch in the precious cool air, flapping them a few times to ease the soreness out and scatter glittering yellow dust onto the ground, so out of place amoungst the garbage and damp decay of the street. As you take off, you think of that kid and decide to wait a few moments before you whip up a nice cyclone for Kellen to work off of.

You don't think you've ever seen anyone reach for their phone that fast.


End file.
